Hero Worship
by femalegamer
Summary: An alternate look at the post-Landsmeet relationship between Loghain Mac Tir and Neria Surana.  Obviously, end of game spoilers.  This story was for the livejournal community Loghain mac tir's Seven Deadly Sins prompt: Wrath.


"'Tis said that wrath is the last thing in a man to grow old" - Alcaeus

She watched as he settled himself to the ground with a grunt. He seemed so – tired. Older than she had thought. Resigned. Sad. Had she made a mistake in sparing him? He seemed to think so, which was disheartening.

Truthfully, everyone else seemed to agree with him, except perhaps Sten. It was difficult to tell with the big warrior, but she thought he had nodded at her slightly. Oh, and Morrigan. She didn't think Morrigan liked Loghain, but anything that got rid of Alistair was a bonus in her books, that was clear. If only she could have traded the wily witch for the Teyrn instead, that would have made her happier, though she may have been the only one.

This was a regular campsite, on the main road to Redcliffe; without bounty hunters and the like trailing them, they could take the main road. It was easier – she carefully built up the evening's fire with wood left at the campsite and then merely reached out her hand to light it. There were benefits to being a mage, even if they were mostly outweighed by the disadvantages, such as the possibility of a templar cutting your head off for laughing oddly.

The Teyrn sat with his eyes closed; he had commented on the day's march about being out of the habit of such trips. She had considered asking him about the days of the rebellion but couldn't quite bring herself to do so, with Wynne's disapproving stare on her back. To actually hear the stories from his own lips would have been unbelievable. She saw his lip twitch in a bit of a snarl and his head tilt, as if considering before he muttered under his breath: "Year. I've had a cursed bad _year_."

She snorted in amusement, though she was clearly not intended to hear. She supposed in a way he'd had as bad a year as she had, and a worse week. "I wouldn't complain too much, your grace. You're still alive, after all," she pointed out. Her own voice sounded so quiet and meek next to his authoritative rasp.

"Yes, I could be, warden. Which, I would point out, was your choice, and I have to ask one question of you: why? I think that Howe can attest to how merciful you are, so don't try to sell me that, if you please." Tired from the day, his voice was still a growl, but softer now than the Landsmeet, where he called out the nobles of Ferelden. She could imagine that growl saying other things, personal things.

"I've heard the stories, read the books. I know that you're a great general, a strategist without peer. That without you, we would never have pushed the Orlesians out. I'm not a leader, not really, nor do I have a head for tactics, and neither did… Alistair." It hurts her to say his name, after betraying him like that. Poor sweet Alistair. She had wept inside (and perhaps outside – she tried not to think about what a baby she looked in front of the most powerful people in the country) to hurt him so much, but she couldn't look the Hero of River Dane in the eyes and let him be killed. And never mind that his own daughter had been standing right there.

She supposed she could have solved the problem by sending Alistair out to fight; she had a feeling he wouldn't have asked for her permission in the heat of battle. She couldn't resist crossing swords with a legend, though she was amazed she had won. She tried not to think about what that meant: she had risked so much on her mage-skills and shining blade. How would the war with the Blight have gone if she lost? She supposed that at least she could have had a more rational discussion with the Teyrn. They both had the same goal in the end, after all: saving Ferelden.

It was Loghain's turn to snort and raise his eyebrows at her. "Really. So, you confronted me at the Landsmeet to take me out of power so that I could lead your armies. Such a logical little elf girl, I see, " he sneered at her. He sighed and rubbed at his presumably aching forehead. She frowned.

"Do you really think that the elves or the dwarves or _especially_ the mages would fight for you if I weren't here? You're not the only one with a bad year, sir, I betrayed my best friend, who turned out to be a blood mage. I fought werewolves, demons, heretics and just plain peasants. My decision resulted in a good dwarven man's death. I had to decide if everyone I've ever known needed to be executed because they might be possessed by demons. I just drove away a man who I might have been able to love, and no one is willing to talk to me, because I saved your worthless hide! I am not a silly little girl, and you better remember it!" She had stalked around the fire as she spoke until she was in the unusual position of looming over the still-seated former Teyrn, her hands beginning to glow the same orange-red as the newly burning campfire. They were supposed to work together, blast it! This was all going so wrong. He thought she was just a child playing at being an adult.

The rest of the camp had grown remarkably quiet as her shrill voice seemed to echo from the trees.

The Teyrn pushed himself to his feet slowly and deliberately, wincing slightly as his heavy armor settled onto some undoubtedly raw spot. Now it was he who loomed, given their height differences. Her lack of self-confidence shrank her still farther under the gravity of his power and authority. This was a man who was used to being _in charge._ "So, you do have some fire that isn't magic. Good. You certainly put a kink in Eamon's plans, not putting Maric's bastard on the throne. You're still green, though, that's clear – you're right when you say you're no strategist. I am the source of all evil, clearly, but you save me. It pains you to hurt the whelp, but you run him off. It's clear Eamon planned to put the bastard on the throne, but you leave Anora on it." He folded his arms and looked skeptically at her, head tilted. "If anyone needs a tactician, you do, that's clear."

He was just standing there, looking all brooding and tired and alone. She was angry; her blood was flowing. She took a step forward, as if to yell at him once more, but instead she stood on tip-toe and kissed him.

He was about as yielding as a granite cliff face, and as responsive, at least for the first moment.

After that, he pushed her away. Forcefully, he shoved her narrow elven shoulders, clenched teeth white in the darkness as he scowled. She managed to keep to her feet, barely.

"Damned elves, thinking we all run on lust. How dare you think I'm that weak!" Now he bellowed, his voice the bull to her cat. As if pushing her weren't enough, he leaped at her and slapped her face, open handed and loud. He seemed larger than life, silhouetted against the fire as she fell to the ground, stunned both physically and mentally. "What, weren't content with a bastard prince who might become king? Thought you needed to upgrade to a hero out of a tale? Filthy elves, hurting everyone around you trying to become better than you are!"

He was just a dark figure to her as she lay on the damp ground, so she was probably imagining that he was frothing at the mouth. He had seemed so lonely, and she just thought that maybe…

How dare he make those claims. How dare he reject her like that. How dare he push her around.

The small of burned flesh already rose in the air by the time her band of misfits were drawn by his screams. Wynne began to speak as she examined the wounds, then glanced sharply at her and then back to the badly burned man. The look told her that Wynne knew what had really happened, despite her halting explanations that Loghain had tripped into the fire. In the darkness, a satisfied smile touched her lips.

There is no fury hotter than a woman scorned, after all.


End file.
